I recently moved into an old home in Seattle, WA. I have been keeping pace with the cat, taking up residence in all the corners of light. It is the first home I have lived in with a pantry. At the end of this stocked corridor there is a window. I find myself arranging a grocery store medley of flowers beneath this window. I think about the petite woman that this space was built for and I praise the window again. I think about her leaning over this same surface kneading bread. Perhaps the view wasn’t another building a mere five feet from ours, but maybe the same winter light that passes through these tulips. I am grateful for the choice I have had in this era to do “women’s work” and that the walls were not built up around me but rather torn down by every woman who came before. Her name was Pearl, the wife of the man who built this house in 1904.